Julia's Cats

Julia's Cats

From JULIA’S CATS

To Julia’s surprise, Roo de Loo came with a maid—and mice in the kitchen. Neither woman could tolerate souris scampering among the pots and pans, so one rainy day the frizzy-haired femme de ménage bumped up the kitchen stairs with a large market basket on her arm. Could a warm brioche, a spicy country pâté, pain au chocolat, or some other delectable edible be inside? No, this basket held something more delicious. Jeanne lifted the lid, and a black-and-mud-colored ball of fur emerged. Two glittering green eyes traveled up and up and up until they met Julia’s. A pussycat! It was love at first sight.

Jeanne patiently explained that French housewives relied on cats to control the mice, and they usually just called them Minou (Pussy). She shrugged and left Julia gazing at her adorable new mousetrap. The cat stared back but couldn’t be coaxed from the basket. When Julia finally gave up and went to stir her simmering stockpot, the kitty’s curiosity took over, and it leaped to a shelf above the stove and crouched next to a mixing bowl.

When Paul returned from the embassy for lunch, as he did most days, they embraced as if they’d been apart for months, not a few hours. Julia gleefully introduced him to Minou, the purrrrfect answer to their mouse-control problem. Paul studied the newcomer carefully and delivered some interesting news—Monsieur Pussycat was a mademoiselle. Without missing a beat, Julia rechristened her “Minette” and set two steaming bowls of soup on the table.

She had been bending over her stove all morning trying to duplicate the velvety mushroom soup they devoured at their favorite restaurant the night before. She pulled a baguette from Paul’s raincoat pocket, tore the crusty loaf into chunks, and sliced big wedges of strong-smelling Roquefort. She filled two tumblers from an open bottle of red wine and joined him at the table, fretting about the potage. It smelled scrumptious, but was full of lumps. Maybe it was the roux—was it hot broth added to flour paste, or the other way around? Paul took a spoonful, paused, then let his diplomatic training kick into gear. Lumpy, but still very tasty. He kissed her hand and told her not to worry so much. Julia vowed to try again even if it took all afternoon. Paul, sensing another chance to show husbandly support, volunteered to be her guinea pig and taste every batch.

From her safe perch, the hungry cat watched and waited. Finally, she bounded to the floor and onto Paul’s lap. From under the table’s edge, her nose rested just inches from his bowl and the crumbled cheese on the plate. With one flick of her paw, she scooped a chunk into her mouth, then eyed the bowl of soup.

Julia took the hint, spooned some soup into a saucer, and set it on the floor. She watched anxiously, worried that even a starving cat might find her soup wanting. At first Minette ignored the soup, seeming content on Paul’s lap. Suddenly she slid to the floor, dipped a delicate paw into the soup, and raised a lump to her mouth, chewed deliberately, then lapped the saucer until it gleamed. Paul marveled at Minette’s elegant French airs while Julia refilled the saucer—and their bowls.

--from Julia’s Cats: Julia Child’s Life in the Company of Cats by Patricia Barey and Therese Burson © 2012 by permission of ABRAMS. All rights reserved.